Loss of Self
by feralhand
Summary: The gods have fallen.


05.28-29.08, 07.29.10

**Loss of Self**  
The gods have fallen.

* * *

_Lord Okoto said, "look on my tribe Moro. We grow small, and we grow stupid. We will soon be nothing but squealing game that the humans hunt for their meat."_

For the last time.

Consciousness takes hold of me and drags me from my dreams. I've never been too keen on keeping to them anyway. The sun, he's far off yet, only stretching his fingertips across the jagged edge of the eastern mountains. Sweetness hangs in the air, rich with the scent of summer blossoms and morning's mist. The brink of day flows through me. I breathe steady in the face of its peacefulness, as traumatic as I find it today. The passing night drains across my body and this territory in tendrils of warm shadow on its way to rest. Quiet abounds save for the sorrowful chatter of songbirds, and it suits this alcove's vista appropriately. Our forest looks vibrant and thriving, the same as before, like a fragment of memory cut from some ancient time. If I close my eyes, hold my breath, fold my ears, I could be fooled into believing nothing has changed. But, no. As I said, _dreams_.

I don't know what fuels my steps. I don't know what drives me now, but I can see the familiar path drifting beneath my paws. I can sense the old scent markings. I recognize myself in the turns of the route to the river. So, I am still here. This, a thought that does not require thinking, won't hitch my steady gait, but it will break my level countenance, and I whisper a laugh to the spirits that listen. I can't see them anymore. Not since nightfall. Not since She fell.

If I crane my neck just so, I can still hear Her voice. The ground is suddenly warm beneath my feet. Rather, I am colder than I was. Recalling the mystique of a god when one can no longer smell and hear and see Her, a feeling washes over me. It's like the pinprick tingle on tender nose flesh in a sunshower. It feels wrong, it's uncomfortable, but it's okay, I won't die from this. In an instant, however, I wish I could. Though survival is the loudest instinct in my mind, I suspect self-destruction in the tightening of my throat. There's a lump there and it won't swallow down no matter how much grass my teeth clip from the forest floor.

Though the purpose for Her death escapes me, it's not in my nature to speculate why. Mourning, though, is a good definition for the lagging speed in my sprint as what could have been breakfast disappears into a dart-hole. Now, the forest is silent because a predator moves within it. Everything is on high alert. Straining to catch the faintest sounds sharpens my resolve.

You know, humans tell tales about the miraculous thing it is for a lamb to lie with a wolf, but I don't see their meaning. Neck broken, windpipe crushed, this one is fit to sit here with me all day if I desire. It's not special. Life and death are very mundane things. For me, under Her guidance, they were very clearly intrinsic. This is why we are fine to go about naked while humans garb themselves in the pelts of other animals. This is why we can hunt unabashed, and this is why we are not afraid to die. Those that were, She enlightened. To fight your own mortality, to deny death, is to welcome demons into your body. And yes, you may gain the strength to take another step; and underfoot the ground will wilt, and you will burn with the poison of your denial. I do not want to become a demon. If death would have me, I would let it; if only death were waiting for me, then I could understand.

In the deepest part of my chest, there is a weight I've never noticed before. It worsens as the day wears on, and at times I'm afraid to take another step. This idea, it has crept into my head—that if I should continue at this pace, my breast might succumb to this pressure inside me. My flesh would break open and upon the ground would wetly slop my soul; and my stride would never falter, never notice. Into the forest, my body would go on without. I don't know if I could bare such a thing. I won't have to if there is none of me left.

How quickly will it go? How soon will it pass, how long will I suffer? I have not had the ill fate to witness the death of any other god, nor His tribe's recoil. However, stories from my cubhood are wriggling to the surface of my mind. Relatives spoke of the apes and how their intelligence began to dim after the fact. Last I heard, the apes, they talk no more, which is fine because their last murmurs were of abominable rituals, perversions of their ancient practices, that seeped from their dimming brains. I should even say it's good, although their tribe's pride is of little concern to me, especially now. Briefly, my thoughts wander the course of these politics. While I wonder if I'll miss them, I dare shed sympathy for the apes, and guarded optimism for the clever foxes, and childish faith in the powerful serpents. Without meaning to, I take exception and inquire of the seemingly empty forest around, "what will become of you?"

Before all of this, I never assumed I would persist. Every morning, before the sun, I rose and greeted the day with ready fangs and a ready heart. I never mused about the end, either. Such dark thoughts can only be bad, but today I let them in, because today there is no longer a fork in my path—I am simply looking ahead of myself. The air is sharp and bitter with my next inhale, and wide-eyed, I can blow away the greenery, the ebb of life, the omnipresence of the spirit of the forest. In my vision, the sky is gray. The land is bare and black. Men hack at it still. There are no wolves.

In the blink of an eye, the daydream is gone. The forest, it's here. I could pretend this were yesterday. It's foolish, but my feet are taking me back to the gathering place where we all slept at Her side. She won't be there, and the tribe is long gone, but my paws won't listen. Is this, then, my fate? Shall I be chasing the shadow of a ghost with false hope rolling about between my ears? It sounds like denial. I don't want it. I want nothing, now; the same as the young mother who bore dead cubs and cared not for the world until she could forget.

So, this is what I must do.

So, this is why the apes are dumb.

So, this is the weight in my chest.

When I crack open, I must forget a god. It is a feat that rises far above me and looms higher than the tallest tree and the greatest fort a man could ever build. I don't believe I have the wherewithal to meet this challenge, but that is fine. I will change into something that can succeed, and in my tracks I'll discard my obsolescence. This thought, it dries my mouth, it stills my heart for a fraction of a second; and yet at the same time I can feel Her slipping away as easy as water. By nightfall, I no longer hear Her footfalls echoing in the back of my mind. Other things have come to the fore, such as the expedition of men that dare slither through this forest, and the scent of a tribe I can't identify. These matters are enough to fill my mind so that Her memory will never again find purchase. My thoughts are elsewhere and no where at all.

There is a sensation that erupts soundlessly inside of me in concert with the belated realization that the thing is done. It is the acknowledgement that the world will never falter, never notice. It will go on without.

* * *

The memoir and reformation of a cub of Moro. Just a oneshot.


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